Happily Ever After
by denise1
Summary: After POV, AU Sam wants her fairy tail ending


Thanks to Sio for the fantastic beta job and Happy Birthday to Sue. No, they don't have sex, but it is a nice warm and fuzzy fic

Happily Ever After

By

Denise

"I don't think this is a good idea," Charlie said, glancing briefly at his passenger. She sat silently in the seat, her gaze riveted upon the passing scenery. He knew she wasn't looking because it was picturesque, unless the definition of the word and her tastes had changed drastically in the last few weeks.

They said the Springs had been lucky; it hadn't been decimated like some of the larger cities. Rumor had it, not even the mountains were standing in Denver and the coasts were worse.

Even so, the city looked like a tornado had hit it. Some buildings were intact, others tumbled piles of rubble. Street lights hung drunkenly over some intersections and the roads were often clogged with abandoned cars.

The Asgard were going to help, but Charlie knew it'd be years, maybe even decades before things got back to normal. If they'd ever truly be normal again.  He swerved into the far lane, making his way around an abandoned car that hadn't quite been pushed out of the street. On an ordinary day, he'd stop and push it aside, but that wasn't safe now.

Many people had left the cities, but a few remained, and many of those were the opportunistic type. Strict curfews and martial law was all that was keeping Colorado Springs from totally descending into anarchy. That was why he hadn't wanted her to do this, but she'd insisted, even going as far as starting to walk down from the mountain. Realizing that he couldn't stop her, the least he could do would be to insure that she got there safely.

As he drove, Charlie was reminded of the last time he'd been in Bosnia. There was no electricity outside of the mountain, and rumor had it that even running water was sketchy. Armed national guardsmen patrolled the streets, and likely would for months to come.

It wasn't safe to be out of the mountain, and he'd tried to tell her that. But she wouldn't listen. "You know, we can make it back in time for dinner," he suggested.

"Charlie," she said, her voice tired. "Don't."

"It's not safe, Sam."

"I can't hide in Cheyenne Mountain forever," she said. She and the rest of the survivors of the SGA had been living there since their victory, some personnel even going as far as to bring their families into the facility.

"At least let me stay with you," he cajoled, eyeing a pack of dogs walking down the street, searching for food.

"Charlie." She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. "I have to do this."

"Ok," he said, pulling the jeep up in front of her house. He studied it, trying to see if there was any damage. It looked like it had escaped the looters, as had most of the block. It would have looked peaceful, had it also not looked so desolate. He turned off the ignition and opened the door.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm gonna check the place out," he said, walking around the jeep to stand beside her.

"It's fine."

"Sam, it may have escaped your notice, but we're in the middle of a war zone here," he said.

"The war's over and I'm going home," she said. "Alone."

"Sam—"

"Charlie, thank you, but I'm fine," she insisted.

"At least let me check out the house, make sure it's safe," he bargained.

She reached under the seat, pulling out a rifle. "I think I'll be ok," she said.

"Jack would never forgive me if—" He broke off, grimacing at his choice of words. "Sam."

She smiled, moving close and giving him a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, but I will be fine."

Charlie watched her make her way up the short walk, the rifle held casually in her hand. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, quickly unlocking the door.

Charlie stood by the jeep, waiting for a few minutes before he climbed back in. With one last glance at the closed door, he started the engine and put the jeep into gear.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam closed the door behind her, sighing as she sagged against it. Finally. She was finally alone.

Hearing the jeep's engine start she turned, watching out the window as Charlie drove away. He'd been her rock these last couple of weeks. The only person that could confirm her story about the alternate universe. He'd sat right beside her when she'd told General Hammond about the SGC and all the differences there, confirming to her and to them all that she wasn't nuts.

She slowly walked into her house, her memories growing more and more surreal with each step. An hour ago, she couldn't remember what this place looked like, weeks of endless work dulling her senses and memories. But right now the familiarity was enough to break her heart.

Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing. Two wine glasses still sat on the coffee table, one of them marked with her lipstick. The TV remote still lay on the couch cushions and if the TV stations had still been broadcasting, she knew it would be set to channel 43—Jack's favorite because they aired back to back Simpson's every night.

She knew that the table was still set and that a nice roast was rotting in the oven. The bottle of champagne she'd put in the freezer to chill had probably exploded and she was sure the cheesecake was ruined in the refrigerator.

She sank down on the couch, her eyes drifting around the room. Dust motes floated through the air, glistening in the setting sun. The house was still, enveloped in an almost expectant, peaceful quiet.

In this room, it was possible to pretend nothing had happened. There had been no invasion, no attack. Millions of people weren't dead or enslaved. It was easy to pretend that nothing had changed and that her biggest worry was picking up the dry cleaning and remembering to drop the car off at the shop.

It wasn't right. Things should be different somehow. There should be some sign that things had changed. Some sign that the world, as she knew it, was over. Some sign that he was…gone.

Gone. What a simple word. He wasn't gone, he was dead. But he wasn't dead, not totally. In at least one alternate reality he was alive. And somehow that made it worse.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that she'd lost her Jack and that there were others still out there. It wasn't fair that she'd lost her husband while other Sam Carters still had theirs. It wasn't fair that the alternate version of herself could still go on with her life, not realizing the fantastic gift she was wasting to follow silly, meaningless regulations.

She reached between the cushions, her fingers fumbling for a small box. He'd thought he'd been so sly, but she'd seen him slip it out of his jacket pocket while she'd finished setting the table. He was always like that, clumsily cute. There was a lot of insecurity hiding under his brusque exterior.

The box was from a jeweler downtown, a place that she knew Jack liked. It was owned by an older couple, two people who preferred quality over quantity, often hand-making their pieces in lieu of ordering mass produced, cheaper works.

He'd bought her ring there, surprising her one night after dinner. The owner had even opened up especially for them, coming in after working hours so they could have the whole place to themselves.

She carefully opened the pale blue box, revealing a golden chain lying on a bed of satin. Her fingers trembling, she pulled out the necklace, the pendant glittering in the afternoon light. Three diamonds in graduating size were mounted atop each other, creating a sparkling tier.

She knew what it meant, what it stood for. Past, present and future. Something symbolizing forever. She snorted at the irony. What it really stood for was something she'd never have.

There was no present, not with Jack. Not for her. And no future either. Just the past.

Suddenly angry, she tossed the necklace on the coffee table, not caring when it slid to the floor, and got to her feet. Making her way across the room, she opened the liquor cabinet, pulling out one of Jack's bottles. Taking off the top, she took a large drink, not minding the sting of the liquor as it burned down her throat. This was her present now, and probably her future, she thought looking around the empty house.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Brilliant white light faded and he blinked, furiously trying to clear his vision. Damn, was it dark or was he blind?

The moon came from behind the clouds, sending faint shafts of silvery light in through the windows. Ok, that question was answered. He wasn't blind. And he was in the right place. So far, two for two. Now he just needed one last thing.

Figuring he should search the house first, he made his way back to the bedroom, his pace quickening as he walked. He pushed open the door, smiling when he caught sight of the figure curled up on the bed. Thank God.  Even though Thor had promised she was all right, he still hadn't wanted to believe it. "Sam?" He crawled onto the bed, hoping not to startle her.

Getting no response, he shook her gently, surprised when an empty bottle rolled off the bed, thudding softly on the floor. "Oh Sam," he moaned, the smell of whisky finally sinking in. "I'm sorry, baby."

Knowing that she wasn't going to wake up any time soon, he kicked off shoes and reached down for the spare blanket at the foot of the bed. He spooned up behind her, sliding his arm around her stomach, scarcely able to believe that he was here, she was here and they were both safe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam slowly woke up, sweat running down her spine. She pushed the covers back, groaning as the movement set her head to aching. Her heart lurched when she felt the bed shift and realized that she wasn't alone.

Jumping from the bed she stumbled, falling roughly to the floor. Panicking, she fought to get to her feet, fighting the blanket that was tangled around her legs. He sat up and she screamed, her only thought reaching the rifle she'd left in the living room.

He said something and she ignored him, unable to see much beyond his shape in the darkness of the room. She tripped and fell, burning her knees on the carpet. She heard his feet hit the floor and she got up, running into the living room. She threw herself at the couch, pulling the cushions off trying to find the weapon. Feeling cold metal under her fingers, she pulled it towards her, fumbling for the trigger.

His bulk filled the doorway and she flipped off the safety, hoping to hell that it was loaded. "Sam!" he said, stopping short. He raised his hands. "Sam, god it's me!"

She pointed the gun at him, her hands shaking so badly that she knew it'd be a miracle if she ever hit him. How the hell had he gotten in here? And who was he? Looters didn't normally cuddle up with their victims. Unless, of course, he wasn't your garden-variety looter.

Suddenly terrified, she cocked the rifle, alternately grateful to Charlie for showing her how to use it and cursing him for listening to her and leaving her alone. "Sam, look, I know this is weird, but I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly.

His voice sounded familiar and she shook her head, wondering for a moment if she'd finally lost her mind. "You're dead," she whispered, recognizing the voice.

"No."

"I saw you die," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

"I know."

"They shot you. There was so much blood and…you were so pale, so cold." The rifle wavered as memories washed over her. Shouting, fighting. The heavy thump of staff weapons, automatic weapons fire echoing off the walls. Bits of concrete showering down on them, filling the air with sandy dust.

"I know," he said softly, walking around the couch. He reached out and grabbed the gun, pulling it from her hands. "It's a very long story, but I'm real, I promise you." He cupped her cheek and she flinched.

"Jack?" She frowned, her hand grabbing his wrist.

"It's me, baby, it's me," he promised.

She felt his muscles flex under her fingers, his pulse beating in his wrist. He was warm and solid. She could feel his breath on her face, smell the scent that was uniquely him.

"Am I dead?"

He shook his head. "No, baby."

"Oh, god." She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close, burying her face into his neck. She felt his arms wrap around her back and she clung to him, not knowing how he'd come back to her and not caring.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack held her, his hand stroking her back as she sobbed into his shoulder. God, he'd been an idiot, scaring her like that. He should have—what? What exactly was the protocol for coming back from the dead?

"It's ok, baby, it's ok," he crooned, rocking gently. She didn't respond, but sobbed harder, her fingers digging into his back. He kept holding her, closing his eyes as he allowed himself to finally believe that it was real.

He held her until her sobs slowed and he slowly loosened his grip. He gently pulled her up, urging her to sit on the couch. "I'll be right back," he said, leaving her on the couch. He made his way into the kitchen, depending on his memory to guide him in the faint light.

He reached into the refrigerator, crinkling his nose at the smell of rotten food. He pulled out two cans of warm soda and grabbed a handful of napkins from the holder on the counter. Going back into the living room, he gave her the napkins, smiling when he heard her loudly blow her nose.

He picked up the candles off the table and carried them into the living room, using a convenient box of matches to light one. The room was bathed in flickering golden light and he sat beside her, able to study her for the first time.

She was dressed in borrowed fatigues, the black t-shirt obviously a couple of sizes too big. She looked just like she had the last time he'd seen her, but not totally. Something was different. There were shadows in her eyes that he knew he'd put there.

"I saw you die," she said softly, her eyes riveted on his face. He could see the analytical part of her mind waking up, trying to make sense of the extraordinary circumstances she now found herself in.

He nodded, opening one of the cans and taking a swig of the warm drink. "I did," he said. "This is a really long story."

"I don't have any other appointments," she said wryly, her demeanor changing a bit as her skepticism overrode her emotions.

A wary look crossed her face and he sighed, knowing that his future rested on his next words. "What you saw was right. I did die," he said slowly.

"But?"

"No, let me finish," he said. "After they got rid of the Goa'uld, the Asgard offered to help with the dead."

She nodded slowly. "There were so many and—"

He gently grabbed her hand, silencing her. "When they found me, they noticed something. I don't really know what, but they decided that I couldn't die."

"So they brought you back? Like General Hammond?"

He shook his head. "They could bring back General Hammond because he'd just been zatted. There aah, there was too much damage," he finished slowly, his hand awkwardly gesturing towards his chest. He could still remember how it felt to get shot. The heavy pressure on his chest, the helpless sensation of trying to breathe through damaged lungs, hot blood running down to pool in his lap. It felt odd to be discussing his demise so calmly.

"But you're—"

"My mind was in one piece, but my body wasn't. Sam, the Asgard are so incredibly advanced," he hurried to explain.

"I don't understand."

"When you went to visit Thor, did you happen to notice…well, I mean…Playboy would be lost on them," he said, feeling his face color.

"Well, yeah, of course I noticed but—Jack—I—"

"They're clones," he interrupted, enjoying the puzzled look that crossed her face. She was so beautiful when she was confused.

"C—" She stopped, staring at him in horror. "Who are you?" she asked, backing away from him.

"I am Jack O'Neill. Everything, right down to the mole that you find so fascinating, is exactly the same," he promised.

She stared, studying him intently. "Jack O'Neill died, defending Cheyenne Mountain," she said evenly.

"And the Asgard fixed that."

"Fixed?" Her voice rose, edging towards panic.

"Sam, it's me." She slowly shook her head. "Every memory, every sight, every sound, they're all in here," he said, tapping the side of his head.

"Just like before?"

"Huh?" He frowned.

"Harlan," she explained. "You're—"

"No," he interrupted. "Not like Harlan. Baby, it's me. I'm not a machine. I'm real. Flesh and blood."

"And the others?"

"Others?"

"Did they…bring back the others too?" she asked.

"A few. Sam, it's not that they don't want to, but, in some cases, there was nothing to bring back," he explained. He scooted forward, stopping when she leaned back, trying to maintain her distance. "You and Charlie, you put me—my body, in the cooler, didn't you?" he asked, relaying only what he'd been told.

"How--"

"That's why the Asgard were able to clone me. They had a good copy to work from," he explained.

She stared at him for a second, **and** then got to her feet, slowly walking around the room. He watched her, studying her intently. Her pace was slow, her arms wrapped around her middle. Even in the soft, flickering light, he could see that she was pale, her features drawn. He didn't know if it was because of what he'd just said or a result of her intimacy with his whisky.

She looked desperate, fragile and almost as if she would shatter with the slightest touch. She reminded him of a woman on the edge, teetering between sanity and madness. And it was all his fault.

He'd hurt her, pushed her. He should have listened to Thor. The little fellow had suggested that it might be best to break the news of his resurrection slowly. But Jack had ignored him. He and Sam had already been separated for so long, he hadn't wanted to wait a moment longer. He had to see her, had to know that she was ok.

And in his selfishness, he'd just hurt her more. He slowly got to his feet, doing his best not to startle her. "I'm gonna go," he said softly.

"What?" she spun, turning to face him.

"I'm gonna go back to the mountain." He started to edge his way towards the door, glancing out the window at the darkness outside. It hurt to leave her, to abandon her again. But he didn't know what else he could do.

"Why?"

"Sam, you don't want me here," he said. "I'll go back to the SGA," he said sadly. His hand rested on the doorknob and he twisted it, pulling the door open. It was so quiet outside;the normal city noises he'd grown accustomed to were gone. It was like he was up in Minnesota, at his cabin, but not nearly as restful. This was no peaceful idyllic spot, but the middle of a desolate war zone.

"You're alive, you know," she said softly. He paused, not daring to turn to face her. "In the other universe. The Goa'uld never came. You…you were still alive and…Jack, I buried you, or as close as I could.  Then you were back and alive and…I had to let you go again and now you're here and—" She raised her hands and they fluttered around her face helplessly. "I—" Her voice broke and she crumpled, sinking down to the floor.

Jack shut the door, hurrying over to her. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. "I am so sorry," he said, his own throat closing. "So very sorry, baby."

"I can't stand to lose you again," she said.

"You won't," he promised.

"You can't promise that."

"Hey." He gently pushed her back, raising one hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing aside a tear. "Not even death," he said softly. "Corny but true."

She smiled slightly at his words, raising her hand to trace his face. "You really are real?"

He nodded. "Oh, yeah."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, melting against him. Jack closed his eyes, inhaling her familiar scent.  He was home. Finally, he was home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam carefully slipped out of bed, her hand a reaching for the t-shirt she vaguely remembered dropping to the floor. She pulled it over her head and padded out of the bedroom, the soft dawn light illuminating her way.

Reaching the living room, she stopped, studying the room intently. Where was it?

Catching a glint, she hurried across the room, snatching the necklace up off the carpet. Her fingers fumbling, she worked the catch, quickly securing the chain around her neck.

One hand cradling the comforting weight of the pendant, she crept back to the bedroom, seeing Jack stir as she crawled back under the covers. "Sam? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, go back to sleep," she said.

She rolled over, nestling into his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder as her arm rested on his chest. She could feel his heart beating under her ear, his chest rise and fall in a comforting, soothing rhythm. He was here, he was alive.

Her fingers traced the warm outline of the three stones adorning her neck.  Past, present and future. She had them all now, and every single one in the arms of the man she loved.

Fin


End file.
